


Happy Wife, Satisfied Life

by SaintLilin



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Attempt at Humor, Come Eating, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Lots of Food, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Kink, Smut, Thicc Arthur Morgan, Thicc Arthur Morgan Kink??????, Vaginal Fingering, Weight Gain, and a horny wife, and i've given him that with a ranch, i was equal parts horny and hungry while writing this, so much accidental alliteration dlkfjsdkj, weight gain kink???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23184343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintLilin/pseuds/SaintLilin
Summary: “Because in case it wasn’t clear, the only man whofucks meis my darling, handsome husband. The same man who eats whatever I put in front of him and then asks for seconds.” You pointedly slide the heel of your foot over his chest, hooking your ankle behind his shoulder. “Ain’t that right, sweetie?”"Yes, ma'am."
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 37
Kudos: 239





	Happy Wife, Satisfied Life

**Author's Note:**

> i finally got arthur overweight in my 6th playthrough so this is how i'm celebrating. (I also got Pearson's scout jacket so expect smut with that featured in it soon)

The first time you cooked for him you were nearly convinced Arthur had never eaten anything that wasn’t out of a can or charred over an open flame before.

The way he’d slouch into his seat after snapping into a pan-seared sausage, act as though he’d never so much as heard of oregano after tasting it in your tomato sauce. You’d given him boiled potatoes and gravy and he’d acted like you were the inventor of cracked wheat. During your first meal together you’d worried you made too much food, but between a slow-cooked roast and raspberry pie you were still chewing on your carrots when you watched Arthur stick his thumb into his mouth to collect the last bit of flaky crust from his plate.

It felt like a treat, watching Arthur’s face light up after opening the cabin door to the smell of melting sugar and caramelized berries, hearing the moans when he bit into fresh bread with rosemary kneaded into the crust. To offer him cheese that wasn’t rancid enough to make a fish jump out of water. 

You wondered sometimes if he was what happened if you ate magic beans instead of planting them in the ground. He’d always been tall, broad, and muscular, the rare few photos you have of him from ‘once upon a time’ a testament to that. Built like an ox, it was only because he was whipped around and grass-fed like one too that he remained as lean as he did.

With how much he ran around the ranch lifting sheep, wrangling the cattle, carrying around bags of feed and bales of hay there was no getting truly out of shape for him, but the weight he had packed on as of the last six months was, admittedly, a little more than noticeable.

His gaunt cheeks filled out to be soft and round, wrists, which were already twice the size of your own, became impossible to meet your fingers around. Thighs became more comfortable to sit on top of, chest like a soft pillow when you’d recline together in bed, long, thick fingers stretching you wider than before when he’d plunge them into your--

You hiss when your thumb grazes the still-hot pie pan. You’d been impatiently waiting for it to cool by the window, trying and failing to keep your mind on anything but the man just beyond it. Swept the whole house, milked the cows, baked _another_ pie. 

Your thoughts keep circling back to the same place.

Arthur. 

In bed, in a bath, without his shirt on, _with_ his shirt on. Hell, taking you up against a tree sounds appealing right now, even if last time it ended up with a run to the doctors to get a salve for poison ivy. 

As if summoned, the front door to the cabin opens, Arthur walking in stripped down to his pants and dark blue union suit and, _fuck,_ maybe you _did_ summon him. You always enjoyed when he forwent an overshirt and wore his union suit as a shirt. The stretchy material lent itself to being tight exactly where you wanted it; highlighting his pronounced barrel chest, the bulk of his shoulders and well-earned muscle on his back. The collar just low enough to show off the slope of ever-present collarbones, the fine blonde hair on his chest. Arthur dumps off a handful of firewood, brushing his hands off on his pants while be beelines for you.

“Smells great,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. 

“It’ll need to cool for a bit,” you tell him, slowly wrapping your arms around his thick middle to keep him in place. “Are you all worn out, darling?”

“Not yet. Did you need me to do something else?”

You hum, leaning up on the tips of your toes to kiss his chin, lick his jaw. You can feel him swallow. “Nothing comes to mind,” you lie. “Did you want me to draw you a bath?”

Arthur’s mouth pinches to the side, hesitant. “No, that’s alright, darlin’. You done enough for me already.”

“Wanna do some more,” you insist, fingers walking along the buttons of his union suit. His hands catch yours before you can pop the first button, long fingers wrapped easily around your wrists. Arthur stares at you curiously before letting you go. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Dunno,” you sigh. “Think I’m getting just a bit too hot, is all.” You pluck the first three buttons of your shirt, leaning back against the counter. “Will you help me undress? Maybe I'll feel better then.”

His green eyes blinking from your face to your cleavage - four, five - until his hands lay over yours. “Maybe--maybe you’ve got a fever?”

“Oh?” you consider innocently. You take his hand, hold it against your cheek. “Why don’t you check my, uh. _Internal_ temperature, then?”

You cheekily swirl your tongue around his thumb, suck it into your mouth. Arthur removes it with a pop. “You need me to cook you up that garlic soup? For the fever. Or get you a tonic, or--”

“Are you being purposefully dense, or do I really need to spell this out for you?”

Arthur pauses, looks almost guilty. When he lets out a sigh you nearly start to worry. “No, uh. It’s just that I…”

“Are you not in the mood?”

“No, it’s not that,” he assures. You squeeze his hand, wait for him to gather his words enough to explain to you what’s on his mind. “You don’t wanna wait until it gets dark?”

You blink. “Why would I want that?”

“Well, don’t it...bother you?” You kiss the golden band on his finger.

“Does what bother me?”

“Laying with an," --he waves his hand, laughs mirthlessly-- "an old, fat man?”

You drop his hand away from your lips, a pit forming inside of your stomach. 

So that’s what this is about.

Arthur never had the highest opinion of himself, and it always seemed to be an uphill battle trying to guide him to see what you did. You knew you couldn’t control what he thought, how he viewed himself or the world. Could only be there to support him through it, shine a little light on the things he was too stubborn to squint for. 

But Arthur wasn’t the type to readily accept help. Even if you’d extracted all the good in him and held it up in the sunlight he’d find a way to blind himself before admitting what he saw.

But you knew your way around those barriers he put up. You could lead Arthur to water, but unless you were willing to force his stubborn head under, he wouldn't drink it.

With a firm push to the center of a chest, you stare him down with a cocked eyebrow.

“Are you accusing me of infidelity, Arthur Morgan?”

He blinks. Once, twice, then begins to sputter out some jumbled up,“What? No! Where did that--I would never--“ but you shut him up with another push. Built like a brick house, he crumples like playing cards under your scorn. It’s hard to bite down the smile that pulls on your lips, especially seeing how confused and apologetic Arthur’s face manages to twist. _Oh, you are a cruel woman, Mrs. Morgan._

“Sure does sound like it,” you press, Arthur backing up on his own now.

“No, darlin’, that ain’t what I meant.”

“You really think I’d cheat on my lovely husband with an old, fat man?”

Another blink, the hands raised to plea dropping just slightly as he starts to catch on.

“Well?” you demand. Arthur licks his lips.

“No, ma’am.” 

Your simper finally breaks through your teasing veneer. You might be cruel, but Arthur loved being led on a tight leash. 

“Good,” you purr, pushing him down into the dining chair. He stares up at you with dark eyes, pupils swallowing all but a thin ring of his pretty blue-green irises. “Because in case it wasn’t clear,” you climb onto the table, feet planting on either of his large thighs, ”the only man who _fucks me_ is my darling, handsome, doting husband. The same man who eats whatever I put in front of him and then asks for seconds.” You pointedly slide the heel of your foot over his chest, hooking your ankle behind his shoulder. “Ain’t that right, sweetie?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathes, all gravel and barely tempered desire. He slides his hands up your calves and under your skirt, nails dragging until he reaches the split in your undergarments. “I’m guessing this is all for me, then?”

“And I was under the impression you were a foolish man, Arthur Morgan.” 

He chuckles as he unties your underthings, slipping them down your legs and tossing them over his shoulder. You’re too worked up to nip at him for it, which speaks volumes considering you like a clean home and he’s hardly even touched you. The fabric of your skirt gets pushed up around your hips, lip caught between your teeth with anticipation. 

Arthur smirks. “You gonna say Grace, or shall I?”

"Oh, don't make me change my _mind_..!”

Arthur’s thumb presses into your clit, making you squirm backward to avoid the direct stimulation. It only lasts for a second--long enough to shut you up--and he’s still got his shit-eating grin on when his tongue slides between your folds. 

_“Christ,”_ you hiss.

Arthur’s hands are pushing your thighs apart before they have the chance to clench around him, trained to your body and its reactions. His hot tongue has you melting against his mouth when it flicks at your clit, stomach rising and falling erratically as he pulls gasps and low moans from your throat. You thread your fingers through his hair, watching him bury his nose into the curls atop your mound. You’re shameless in the way you tug at his hair, dig your feet into his back, mewl and gasp and beg-- _just like that, honey._

It’s infuriating, how good he is at most everything, but this especially. It was almost insulting how easily he made you come the first time you tangled yourselves together, like he’d spent every dollar he’d ever earned in brothels and saloons. It would surprise you none to learn the women paid _him_ , and yet the idiot still has the audacity to think of himself as something undesirable.

His green eyes flick up to yours when a thick finger presses into you, the smirk felt rather than seen when you cry out--

“Fuck, Arthur!” 

You’d love to tell him smug isn’t a good look, but that fox-like gleam in his eyes _does_ look good, looks so fucking attractive. You want him to wear that self-satisfied expression constantly--should tell him that, but the words are prematurely ripped from your throat when he begins to curl his finger and suck at your clit. 

It’s an incessant and demanding pressure that builds just above where his fingers reach inside of you, the tightening warmth that grabs a hold of your nerves and squeezes them for all they’re worth. The hand not occupied with draining your voice squeezes your thigh, pulling you impossibly closer to him as your hips begin to buck up on their own, controlling the pace. You use his mouth like a wet, soft post to grind up against, bringing yourself closer and closer.

It’s the barest touch of his teeth that shove you off that delicate knife’s edge, cunt squeezing around his fingers as they begin to fuck back into you, sparking a second profile of pleasure to pulse against. 

Your back arches off the table, fingers twisting in his hair as you come against his mouth. He removes his fingers from you, but the wet hand becomes a vice on your hips, holding you in place while his lips and tongue continue to work your over-sensitive clit. 

“A-Arthur!” you squeal, squirming uncontrollably underneath him. He doesn’t relent, doesn’t even come up for air. Licks down to your hole and sticks his tongue in, lapping at your slick like it’s the meal you promised him. 

He doesn’t relent until you’ve peaked again, and when he pulls back, lips and chin shiny, you can’t find it in yourself to be annoyed with him. Not even when he cheekily says, “Thanks for the meal, darlin’,” and kisses your throbbing clit.

When he stands to grab a cloth to wipe his mouth with, you catch a glimpse of the bulge straining in his pants and smile. Lazily flipping onto your stomach, you shove your skirt down your legs and kick it under the table. Arthur turns to find you lying with your cheek pressed against the cool wood, raised on your tiptoes to hold your ass up in the air. You wiggle unintentionally, still a little off-balance from your previous orgasms, but with the way Arthur's eyes follow the movement you know it’s having the desired effect.

“Thought you’d like seconds,” you pant, smiling toothily when he bites back a moan.

Arthur wastes no time to undo his trousers, palming himself before reaching his hand inside to pull his erection out. You swallow immediately, trying to keep yourself steady on the balls of your feet, but _fuck_ it’s hard when he grabs your hips, his manhood a heavy and hot weight pressing against you. 

Despite how wet you’ve gotten from your own slick and Arthur’s saliva, how stretched you already are from his fingers there's still that lovely, burning stretch when he presses inside of you. 

And it's these first five minutes that are your favorite.

When he's barely pressed inside and already pushing you to your limit. The steady and slow slide _in and out_ that feels the most intense, dragging against every nerve inside of you. His thrusts are shallow and deliberate, knowing he can coax another orgasm out of you just from this.

Your hand snakes down between your legs, avoiding your oversensitive clit and instead spreading around where his cock splits you open. He groans when he feels your fingers touch him, maneuvering your hips so he can watch himself fill you. 

“That’s my girl,” he growls, nails digging into your ass and thighs. “Love feelin’ yourself gettin’ filled, huh?”

Your only answer is a low moan, toes flexing underneath you when your ass meets his abdomen, spine arching to invite him in deeper. 

His name falls from your mouth like the open tap of a keg, but when that special, low and breathy _Arthur_ reaches his ears he doubles down and _fucks_ you. His weight slams into each thrust, balls slap against your clit. Your hands fist against the open air, trying and failing to get a grip on the edge of the table to keep yourself from falling completely out of reality and into that creeping, lecherous, consuming heat.

You’re completely powerless to stop it, and Arthur holds you underneath until you’re gasping for air, throat going raw with the obscenity shouted from it.

This time he does slow down, works you through the aftershocks of your orgasm with slow and precise snaps of his hips. Each one is followed by a muttered curse and a hoarse moan, and when you finally stop spasming he pulls you down with him to settle into his seated lap. You’re boneless, but that doesn’t matter much to Arthur. He holds your thighs in his hands, pulls them apart and presses them against your chest as he thrusts up into you, slower this time and you know he's close. All that’s left for you is to lean your head back onto his shoulder and feed him pretty little moans and praise. 

He's the loudest when he's on the precipice, the sweetest either intentionally or not. He sucks a mark on the side of your neck and follows it up with a bite. Soothes that with his tongue. You turn your head, sloppily kiss his cheek and the corner of his mouth until his lips slot between yours. 

“Love you. So good to me, Arthur. Love the way you touch me.”

“I’m close,” he moans, and you squeeze around him, spreading your legs wider.

“Inside,” you whimper. “Fuck, come inside of me? Please?”

His fingers squeeze bruises into your thighs as his thrusts grow slick and sloppy, breath a rhythmless pant against the sweat on your skin until, finally, he stills.

You both groan when he finally pulls himself out, bodies slowly being stripped of the pain-eating endorphins and flooded with fatigue. Arthur’s hands drag light, delicate circles under your ribs, over your hips. Dips into your navel and then inches lower. 

“The pie is probably cold by now,” you mutter, eyes closed but acutely aware of where his hand is going. 

“I’ll just put it back in the oven,” he mutters against your ear, fingers circling against your clit.

“Arthur,” you grit, attempting to sound stern, but the quiet moan can be heard even in your ears. You squirm in his arms, body sore and sensitive, but his hand is gentle as it presses into you. Curiously exploring, not obtrusive or demanding. You can’t help the small mewls that fall out of your mouth, nor the flaming heat that licks along your cheeks at the squelching all the additional slickness causes. 

When he pulls out you’re both a little captivated by the mix of pearly come and clear slick that coats his digits. It slides down his fingers like molasses off a spoon, slow and thick. 

“Maybe you really are a perverted old man,” you mutter. He parts his fingers, watching the liquid drip off and land on your thigh. Instead of wiping them off, he brings his hand up to your mouth. You grab his wrist, eyes narrowed. “Arthur,” you warn.

“What?” he asks innocently. His eyes don’t leave your mouth. “Thought you’d like a taste. Made it just for you.”

“My husband ain’t much of a cook,” you grit, jaw clenched but lips still quirked high.

“Ah, my wife ain’t neither.”

You gasp, indignant, and Arthur takes the opportunity to shove his fingers in your mouth. It’s bitter and tangy and just the tiniest bit sweet and you hold his wrist in a vice grip while you bitterly suck it all off. Dip to lick what had slipped down his palm and bite his wrist. He gasps, and you swear you can feel him twitch underneath you. You share a look.

"You're gonna ruin your appetite," you warn when his fingers dip back down.

He gives you that same lopsided, toothy, self-satisfied grin that you wish you could find a reason to hate. One day. Maybe.

"Never."

**Author's Note:**

> no 'bun in the oven' jokes despite how desperately i wanted to lmfao
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this weird, random arthur smut! I'm already thinking about a "low honor" Arthur and his horny ranch wife. maybe less "I love you, so shut up and fuck me," and more "Shut up, I need to fuck you... Also ily." BECAUSE ARTHUR DESERVES IT. THIS IS FOR ARTHUR!
> 
> y'all know the drill, if you see something say something. That is, if there's some glaring inconsistency/spelling error/a paragraph doesn't make sense--tell me (pls)
> 
> Twitter: @Saint_Lilin  
> Tumblr: Lilin-Writes (Where i'm taking requests! Idk how that works but uhh send me a RDR prompt *nsfw welcome* and i _might_ do it!)


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